


you are made of nebulas and novas and night sky

by nein



Series: title prompt challenges [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Reality, Amsterdam, Gen, M/M, title prompt challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/pseuds/nein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one week before the Nobel Prize and somewhere in Amsterdam, a poet's path collides with a scientist. From there it's a hurricane of misunderstanding, understanding and the tentative shift from strangers, to friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are made of nebulas and novas and night sky

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is for Round 3 of the title prompt challenge with [themorninglark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark) based off Vienna Teng's celestial lyrics. She gave me 'you are made of nebulas and novas and night sky' from [Never Look Away.](http://youtu.be//V0Kml0b1oAs) She wrote [strange how this journey's hurting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5803417) and you should all go read it because it perfectly encapsulates the atmospheres of her song whereas I, alas, ran with the most random idea.
> 
>  
> 
> Attention! This takes place in an AU where they do not know each other from before :D :D :D Enjoy!

 

“What level?”

 

“Six, thank you.”

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He’s walking in and Ennoshita’s walking out so he lingers at the door, holding it open long enough for the man to catch the heavy edge with his fingertips. He tilts his head in the subtlest of greetings.

“Have a good day,” Ennoshita breathes out, before the winter air breathes in.

 

-

 

A few mornings later, he sees a familiar face exiting a café. Readjusting the laptop in his arm, Ennoshita tries buries the insomniac’s desperation behind tones of politeness and hopes he frames himself as composed rather than cold. When he catches the man’s eye, he forces his own eyelids to be less droopy. “How’s the coffee here?” he enquires.

The other man’s pace slows as he blinks, gaze a little searching. He smirks quickly, saluting Ennoshita with the coffee cup, “Effective.”

_He understands!_

There’s a flat white fated for him. Another speech can be translated. Today will be a good day.

 

-

 

The fourth time they meet, it’s on the stranger side of midnight. Ennoshita has given up on productive work hours ago. Now he finds himself reclining in the lobby reading Kenzaburo Oe’s  _Changeling_ in lieu of translating the introduction for the Nobel Prize for Literature. A jazz arrangement of  _My Favourite Things_  is weaving languidly into the open space, as sleepy as the city of Amsterdam through the stained glass windows. He measures the snowfall with every glance upwards at the largest clock, watching it pile upon the window centimetre by centimetre as time slows and his heart quickens with stubborn energy. It’s almost worth writing a few rhyming lines about but his pen is in a difficult pocket and paper is an unknown entity in this day and age.

There’s a man waiting out there in the cold and Ennoshita watches with tired eyes at the way the light of passing cars slide over his frame and hit the snow-glazed glass. He’s tall, with long legs and an appreciable waist, even between the down coat. Defintely something worth writing about. He taps his book as his mind whirs.

 

_Winter is cruel, but your image_

_Warms and admist the flurry I_

_Wish, for you to be cold a little longer._

 

Ennoshita swiftly glances down when the man’s head turns. Closing his eyes, he thinks about whether or not to translate _ephemeral_ literally or liberally. Hearing a rumble of a car, he reopens his eyes.

The man is collecting a parcel from the window of a car  _(shoulders like Atlas -_ where did he hear that one from?). Paper and twine passes from red glove to grey glove and it’s all Ennoshita can do to look away when money is exchanged a few moments later. Should he be watching this?

 

_My little horse must think it queer_

_To stop without a farmhouse near_

_Between the woods and frozen lake_

_The darkest evening of the year_

 

When he strides back inside after bowing goodbye, the draught invites itself inside through the open door. Ennoshita tries not to stiffen too visibly.

The man is surprised to find a midnight lobby occupant but quickly schools his features in a tight smile. Ennoshita definitely believes he should not have seen the previous exchange. It’s not too late to call his mum. It’s too late to look elsewhere. He had just been caught staring, oh my god -

The man’s eyes flicker down at Ennoshita’s book when he walks past and-

“You speak Japanese?”

Ennoshita sits up, “Ah, yes, _hai_.”

The man’s eyes brighten, “Me too, I’m,” after patting his back pocket with the free hand (don’t look at the parcel, don’t look at the parcel), he pulls out a business card, “Futakuchi Kenji. How do you do?”

Ennoshita stands up swiftly, bowing and reaching out to accept the card with both hands, “Nice to meet you -“ He looks at the card, “ _Dr._ Futakuchi?” The name is familiar but unfathomably untraceable for the midnight state of mind.

Laughing lightly, Dr. Futakuchi waves away the honorific, “Kenji is fine, we’re not in Japan, or businessmen. Oh sorry, perhaps you are, Mr. -“

Ennoshita extends a hand, “Ennoshita Chikara, I’m a translator for the NHK. Sorry, I don’t have my name card on me.”

“It’s fine, it’s past midnight after all.” Dr. Futakuchi’s hand is warm when he grasps it. Ennoshita is suddenly embarassed for the inadequacy of his own blood circulation. “Translation?"

“Yes…” Ennoshita stumbles.

“Really?” Sharp eyes flick upwards to meet his, Ennoshita feels exposed.

“And poetry,” he confesses, “but that’s mainly a hobby."

“Poetry huh.” the doctor clucks his tongue, “I’m not familiar with that field.”

“The field you would be familiar with is…?"

“Supernova Cosmology - astrophysics.”

Ennoshita blinks, "You’re a scientist.”

Not-Doctor Dr. Futakuchi frowns, “Yes, fundamentally, if you wish to degrade it to that."

_Degrade?_ Ennoshita almost exclaims. “Studying - ”

“Supernovas?” Dr. Futakuchi raises an eyebrow. Maybe it’s maybell- midnight ( _brain_ , Ennoshita chatises), and maybe it’s the pressure of a deadline ticking in his subconscious, but Ennoshita would really like to stop this conversation.

“Supernovas are...?"

“Astronomical events in the decline of a massive star’s life.”

Ennoshita breathes out, would it be impolite to sit down and lie down and roll away? “Oh,” he offers weakly.

Dr. Futakuchi sighs, a large sigh which starts in the lungs and rises to the shoulders, “Dying stars. Supernovas are dying stars."

“You’re a scientist that studies dying stars,” Ennoshita repeats. 

“Yes.“ Dr. Futakuchi huffs impatiently.

Ennoshita winces, “I won’t keep you any longer, it’s very late.” He punctuates with an obvious glance at the clock- no he misses and catches sight of the empty wall instead. Dr. Futakuchi thankfully does not follow his gaze. “Have a good night.”

“Hey wait,” Dr. Futakuchi leans on his front foot, “You staying at this hotel long?"

Ennoshita freezes midway between standing and sitting, “Yes? Until next week.”

“I wouldn’t mind some company at breakfast, if you’re not busy.”

“Okay?” he says, instead of _Sorry I am very very busy_.

“Great,” Dr. Futakuchi smiles, shoulders squaring, “9 o’clock? See you tomorrow.”

“See you … tomorrow?” Ennoshita waves hesitantly, watching Dr. Futakuchi throw one more smile over his shoulder before he disappears into the lift. Ennoshita sits down and stares at his novel. The kanji stares back. Ennoshita thinks of english articles and subject-verb-object sentences. He thinks of an empty notebook and unwritten lines floating like buoys in his liquidated brain. Blinking, his mind drifts to dying stars and smiles as the thought stirs fancy. The idea tinges his tongue as he tastes it, mixed with winter air and cool jazz.

Dying stars. How poetic.

 

_Swan songs, dying stars,_

_Night’s last bright before dawn._

_Why must beauty herald death,_

_And love once lost, be forlorn?_

 

-

 

He’s one speech down and calmly finishing his breakfast when Futakuchi sweeps in, dressed in a pressed navy suit with a thick coat neatly folded across one arm. On his plate, there are two pieces of toast, one which has hazelnut spread, sliced strawberries and dusted icing sugar. The other has pickled herrings. Ennoshita takes a long swig of bitter coffee to balance the sight.

“They're local delicacies,” Futakuchi justifies, setting down his own coffee. “How did you sleep?"

“Very well, thank you for asking,” Ennoshita replies, swallowing the intended _good morning_ , “The flavours are very different.”

“I’m lenient towards differences.”

Ennoshita pauses between gulps, watches Futakuchi take a bite, and tries not to squint at the subtext. He has brown hair, long for his age and impeccably swept to one side, fringing eyes which occasionally glance at the entrance. Ennoshita does not think of black cars with tinted windows.

Herring toast has been demolished and Futakuchi sits back, holding up the other slice like a waiter holds a silver tray. He takes a deep breath and Ennoshita subconsciously rises with the movement. 

“So, I’ve been in Amsterdam a while and you’re the first Japanese person I’ve seen all this time,” Futakuchi remarks, examining the strawberries, "which is pretty strange because Amsterdam is such a touristy-city and very photogenic. What brings you here to this side of the world?"

Sitting up, Ennoshita gently lowers his cup and closes his notebook. There will be no work done this morning. “I have a job here. What about you?”

Dr. Futakuchi shrugs, “A holiday.” He flashes another glance at the door. “More poetry?”

“Translation, actually. Poetry’s the hobby remember?”

“Ah yes yes. So, what kind of poems do you write?”

Ennoshita coughs out a laugh, one hand clutching the table and the other rising quickly to cover his mouth, “Sorry. But you just can’t ask a poet what kind of poems they write.”

“Why not?” he tilts his head. "You asked me what field I studied. I answered quite succinctly.”

“Science is very different from poetry, it’s easier to classify.”

“Yes, but one would think you would understand what you’re writing.”

A challenge hm. Ennoshita sits back, “I do. It’s just hard to define human nature.”

“Okay then,” stawberry toast has disappeared, Futakuchi moves on to coffee “New question. What do you write about?”

Ennoshita sighs -

“Okay, the last poem you wrote was about?”

“This is starting to feel like an interrogation Dr. Futakuchi."

Nose scrunches, “Kenji, please.”

“Kenji-san.” he adjusts, just to be impertinent. “I’m a translator remember?”

“Yes yes, but poetry is more interesting.”

“Okay then,” Ennoshita shifts in his seat, “What I have right now is not very organised and I’m still unsure about where it’s going but what I have so far…is from the perspective of a journalist. She falls in love but she doesn’t confess because she’s always travelling."

“And?” Futakuchi hums. Ennoshita’s eyes flick up, fail to meet Futakuchi’s (he’s looking at the door again) and glances back down. He’ll take the jump.

“And the poems are about how different cities remind her of him. The way the wind brushes her hair like he does, the voice on suburban train lines, things like that.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re in Amsterdam.”

Ennoshita taps the table and looks away. The cloth muffles his nervousness like a well kept secret, “I’m in Amsterdam for translation work actually.”

“Yes translation. Anway, what have you written?” Futakuchi charges onwards. “Hey hey, shoot me some lines. Melt my heart. That what’s poetry’s about yeah?"

_Not really._ Hesitantly, he reopens his notebook and flicks through the pages. It’s okay, Futakuchi's a stranger, a scientist that he ran into in Amsterdam, a scientist that he will never see again. He’s unfamiliar with poetry. He doesn’t know his past or any mutual friends. Any criticism shouldn’t cut too deeply. 

Purposely, he skips the most recent pages. “This was from a couple days ago,” coughing, he begins to recite, "Tonight, // the constellations drift across windowpanes and I // recall the freckles of your smile and // believe // that you are made of stardust -

“Wait hold up hold up,” Futakuchi raises a hand. “That last line, _you are made of stardust_.”

“Yes?” Ennoshita winces, bracing himself.

His nose wrinkles again and makes a hissing sound. “The accuracy in that statement is atrocious.”

Ennoshita freezes. “What”

“I don’t know where to start.” Futakuchi sighs, "Nucler Fusion? The philosophical enquiry into human identity? The fact that the stars are realistically a burning ball of gas and thus, _do not have dust_ " 

“It’s a meta—” Ennoshita deadpans.

“Comet dust yes, interstellar cloud dust yes, pre-star-formation dust _yes_ but not stardu-“ Futakuchi spares another glance at the door and then his knee jerks, hitting the table with a bang. He ducks, chair skidding back and head disappearing beneath the table.

Ennoshita gulps, “—phor.”

“Tying my shoelaces!”

Ennoshita’s pretty sure Futakuchi’s wearing loafers and thus, has no laces to tie. (How would he know? Kinoshita once told him a joke: how can you tell if a Finn likes you? He’s looking at your shoes instead of his own. Haha Ennoshita’s Japanese so that’s not relevant. Really.)

Reluctant to turn around, Ennoshita just decides to grip the table and let his eyes scan for shiny reflective surfaces in his line of sight.

“Heyyy Chikara-kun, where’s the bathroom? I really need to go, can you show me?” Futakuchi’s crouching at his side, tuging his hand while his head is pointedly faced to the left so dramatically that Ennoshita could trace his jugular vein. 

_Haven’t you been here longer than me?_

The women next to them has polarised sunglasses and through them Ennoshita sees an older gentleman, face carved with wrinkles and _is that a scar?_ With the pressed dark suit, he looks like he just stepped out of a Bond movie, as the antagonist. Ennoshita gulps and remembers midnight correspondences and the flash of the european $500 note.

"Up we go, oh that way?” Futakuchi laughs, nervously quiet.

 

_Oh my god._

 

He only has time to slide his entire workspace into his messenger bag before Futakuchi breaks into a run.

 

 

-

 

_The bill the bill!_

Is breakfast complimentary? Does Ennoshita have the guts to walk back in there? Maybe this afternoon, with flowers -  _excuse me I ran out suddenly this morning, could you show me the receipt so that I can pay off my embarrassment?_ You know what’s complimentary? His brain’s supplies of random lines:

_But at my back I always hear_

_Time's winged chariot hurrying near;_

 

Ennoshita shakes his head of Elizabethan verse as Futakuchi leads him round a corner and into sunlight. It stings like the most judgmental of police helicopter search beams and he is reminded of due dates and pages of English lined up to be translated to Japanese. Glancing at a shop window, he is relieved to find an absence of red laser dots targeted on his forehead.

“Futakuchi-san —”

“Kenji, please.”

“Kenji-san — ”

“It’s a long story,” Futakuchi interrupts, putting on his coat, “You don’t want to know.”

 

_It’s ‘I can’t know’ right_.

 

Ennoshita shuffles and looks around. There are cars park at an angle next to the canal and the space between them is perfect for hiding a person. There is also a black iron fence lining the edge which is decent for clinging on to if anyone tries to push in in the water. And the pedestrian traffic is-

"You’re writing about cities yeah?” Futakuchi leans forward with his hands in his pockets (Ennoshita leans back). "How much of Amsterdam have you seen?"

Ennoshita sighs and in the cold, his breath materialises damningly like a fog. He almost wants to breathe it back in. “I’m here for work -“

“It’s Sunday. Have you seen the Vondelpark? Or the Flower Market?”

“Translation doesn’t work like that. We have deadlines —“

“We can take a canal or carriage tour - is the Van Gogh Museum would be your thing yeah”

“My deadline is next week and I’ve —"

“Heineken Factory, Anne Frank House, Prisengracht-"

“Kenji-san.” Placing a hand on Futakuchi's shoulder, Ennoshita delivers his best I-am-very-serious stare, "I’m very sorry. I would love to look around but I really need to finish translating before the Nobel Prize Ceremony.”

“Oh.” Futakuchi looks at him and through his eyes, Ennoshita sees his entire expression deflate, his spirt dissipate, his soul descending to lower powers. It tugs at his heart but he tugs back firmly. 

Patting his shoulder, Ennoshita turns around, “Well, I’ll see you tomor— “

“Chikara-san,” Futakuchi grabs his hand, “Wait.” Rubbing his nose and looking down, Futakuchi is the image of a guilty child. Ennoshita has experience with guilty children. This should be fine.

"I know you might think of me as a nuisance, and I’m sorry if I’ve asked too many questions —“. This may not be fine. “But could you think of it as a favour? You don’t have to talk to me, you can work! I know a place with great view and great coffee. I’ll pay for everything! I just,” Futakuchi scratches the back of his head, “it’s been a while since I had someone to talk to and I would like some company."

 

_This is not fine._

 

“And I don’t want to go back to the hotel -"

_Actually, me neither_.

“I won’t bother you much, I promise."

Ennoshita tugs his messenger bag. The day is young, the birds are singing and his first coffee was of an acceptable quality. There’s the promise of free food and Futakuchi being quiet.

“Okay.”

At this, Futakuchi bursts into a grin, like sunlight, like stardust. Ennoshita really wants to write it down.

 

—

 

If his editor praised the quality of these translations, Ennoshita will smile, thank him for his kind words and absolutely refrain from sharing about the details of his working environment.

Currently, he's sitting in a canal barge, a floating restaurant. He’s sailing down Amsterdam on a floating restaurant. A guitarist is plucking Sinatra and Futakuchi is obediently refilling his glass of red wine.

His laptop is in front of him with half a dozen open windows (he cheers for his productivity) and just peeking out from behind the screen, is a blooming rose. He knows that next to the rose is a scented candle and under both of these is a soft, pink tablecloth.

There’s a couple next to them holding hands and Ennoshita wishes upon his lucky stars that they won’t be going further than that. He already slipped and mistyped boycott as bouquet (and busker as bucket but that’s another story).

The barge glides through the water smoothly and accompanied with rocking motion, Ennoshita feels like could soothe him into hibernation. Outside, the city passes by quietly, silenced by the glass between them.

 

_Two drifters, off to see the world_

_There's such a lot of world to see_

_We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend_

_My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me_

 

 

** — **

 

 

“What are you translating?” Futakuchi peers over the top of his screen.

Ennoshita kicks him in the calf. Accidentally. 

“That was the table,”

He tries again and receives a yelp. He presses the spacebar with great satisfaction.

 

 

** — **

 

 

He’s finishing an economist’s speech when Futakuchi pokes his leg with his foot.

“This is the House with the Heads!” Futakuchi exclaims, pointing outside, “the story goes: 6 robbers tried to break in through a window and the kitchen maid, who noticed, chopped off their heads one by one as they entered.”

“You know whose head I want to chop off right now?”

Futakuchi falls silent.

 

** — **

 

“How old are you?”

His typing doesn’t cease. “Thirty-two.”

“Woah! So am I!”

Ennoshita’s eyes flick up. “I couldn’t tell."

 

 

** — **

 

He’s 70% through the entire Nobel Ceremony when he clicks on a new file.

 

_Laureate_ _for the Nobel Prize in Physics_

 

_Dr. Futakuchi Kenjirou_

 

Breath hitching in his throat, Ennoshita scans the short biography underneath. Devoted astrologist, integral leader of international projects, author of three books and commentator for a popular science program that even Ennoshita has heard of. Born 1964. _His father? No wonder the name sounded so familiar._

Ennoshita looks up. And blinks when Futakuchi isn’t there. Looking around his laptop he suddenly chokes on his words.

Futakuchi has slumped down, face resting in his folded arms. He’s looking out the window, and in light of noon, he’s painted as peaceful, other-worldy. There’s the flickering reflections of sunlight off the water and deep shadows behind the curve of his ear. Strands of hair have eased loose throughout the morning and are now swaying like reeds in summer. 

Following his gaze, Ennoshita looks upon the city of Amsterdam. They pass the ever-growing moss that lines the canal walls, small boats with warm rooms beneath their colourful roofs and uniform terraces standing straight like chinese soldiers. When they pass underneath a brick bridge, darkness joins their company and for a moment, Ennoshita sees loneliness in the eyes that made a habit of smirking. 

Staring at his hands, Ennoshita swallows heavily. He thinks of deadlines, of smiles filtered through telephone static, of new-comer prizes and top-seller lists. The money he mails to his parents every month, the judging gaze of his editor, the awkward school reunions where he would stutter out his profession.

The weight of expectations, the immense pressure emanating from the world surrounding him, the immovable inevitability of _comparison_ catalysed every time by the simple mention of his name.

 

_"It’s been a while since I had someone to talk to.”_

 

_Ah_.

 

Ennoshita closes his laptop and takes out his notebook. When they glide into light again, he clears his throat. Futakuchi sits up immediately.

“I’m going to take a lunch break,” Ennoshita makes a show of stretching lazily, “so tell me about your supernovas."

 

 

** — **

 

Evening is sweeping up the daylight by the time they return to land, laughing past the tied up boats and into the night crowd. Their movements sing of the bubbles in local beer and the warmth of riverside candlelight. In the span of a few hours, Ennoshita feels like he learnt the secrets of the world.

 

There’s a planet where it rains glass sideways.

 

If you cry in space the tears will just stick to your face.

 

That we are actually made of probablities and paradoxical existences (and not stardust, never, never stardust but Futakuchi concedes a little once Ennoshita explains the utilities of _metaphor_ and _imagery_ and _sibilance._ )

 

By the time they reach the hotel, Ennoshita learns even more. 

That, the man with the scar was actually his father (“Laboratory accidents happen all the time!”) and Futakuchi was trying to avoid another media conference this morning. The man last night was the tailor’s delivering his coat-tail suit for the Nobel Prize Ceremony (“Aone doesn’t look like it but he’s one of the best tailors in Amsterdam!) and could he _please_ edit his father’s speech to include more about his doting son.

 

That, okay, if we were made of stardust, then in the same line of reasoning we are also made of dinosaur poop and decomposed bark. But there’s no such thing as stardust.

 

 

 

When they step into the elevator, Ennoshita hums, “Kenji, what’s your number?”

“3.141526," Futakuchi replies with a shit-eating grin.

“What?” Ennoshita blinks, brain catapulting into a mess of high school mathematics long buried.

“Actually I prefer  6.674 ×10 −11 , ” he continues. 

It’s senseless but Futakuchi’s tone triggers a laugh from Ennoshita.

“What did you want?" Futakuchi leans forward, forehead occupied by strong eyebrow action , "My staff I.D? Age? My phone number? Or.. my room number?”

“You’re terrible person,” Ennoshita swats, stepping out when the elevator doors open at level six. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“At breakfast,” Futakuchi grins,  “And I am going to give you a list of things that actually contain dust.”

“At breakfast.” 

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Remember to read [strange how this journey's hurting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5803417)!!  
> \+ After the most recent episode came out I feel so unworthy of writing Ennoshita. brb levelling up before trying again


End file.
